


Prisoner 01

by baku_midnight



Series: Hex: Ruin [1]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Bondage, Drugs, Growth, Imprisonment, Kinda, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medication, Mind Break, References to Medical Torture, Size Difference, Stockholm Syndrome, Voyeurism, putrid serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baku_midnight/pseuds/baku_midnight
Summary: By the time Dwight catches himself feeling sympathy for one of Vigo’s hideous experiments, a monster of a figure called Prisoner 01, it may be too late.
Relationships: Dwight Fairfield/Evan MacMillan | The Trapper
Series: Hex: Ruin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714105
Comments: 7
Kudos: 174





	Prisoner 01

**Author's Note:**

> So starts a series of Dwight getting ruined by the Trapper in every conceivable scenario. This one was inspired by an incredible fanart I found of the Trapper, dripping with all that lovely gold serum, pushing Dwight down. Enjoy, and heed the tags!

The Asylum operated publically as a research facility for ailments of the body and mind, but levels sunk deep, deep underground contained the secret of its true purpose. The prisoners interred there were made subject of all manner of experimentation to augment the size, speed and hardiness of the human body, and as such there lived men with massive, unnatural proportions and unusual limbs, women with absurd fortitude and resilience against damage, and beings graced with speed and stealth to rival night creatures unknown to humankind. They were all of them fantastic and manufactured by wicked science. It was of this fact that the good doctor was particularly proud.

They were not _people_ , or so the brilliant Dr. Vigo had impressed heavily upon hapless phlebotomy technician Dwight Fairfield. Each subject interred herein had given up his personhood when he took another’s life. Each “person” here was convicted of killing a fellow human, coerced either by need, insanity, or vicious desire, and as such each was sentenced to death by the system of justice of his or her homeland. As a researcher of chemically amplified health and vitality, Dr. Vigo was given reign to do with the prisoners what he pleased, and afterwards terminate them with abundant prejudice when their usefulness ended. Dwight Fairfield, along with a group of supplementary individuals whose career paths had terminated at this abysmal location, were tasked with carrying out Vigo's will. “Treating” the prisoners, such as it could be called, consisted largely of restricting their wills, ignoring their inhuman cries for liberty, and filling them with foul medicine.

Dwight had looked with terror upon the prisoners when first he arrived, coming to see their mangled and distorted forms in his nightmares, but in the time since, he had become so accustomed to their ghastly appearances, he grew even to view them as uncannily familiar. Patient 02, who brooded peacefully in silence in his cell all day, and who was awarded impressive speed and stealth by Vigo, looked almost sympathetic, with his small eyes, white face and curious countenance. It was difficult to believe that 02, nicknamed by staff “the Wraith”, had coldly murdered four men before being interned at Vigo’s.

Prisoner 03, on the other hand, was a gangly, malformed creature who suffered from an ailment of mental capacity, and so gained sympathy from some of the staff—though it was troubling when he screamed and growled when approached rather than speaking, his lopsided face unfit for words. Prisoner 07 was a skinny and quick terror on two gangly legs. Prisoner 04 hid her face in her shame for what she had done in her past life above ground, and 06 was a fiend without equal who feared nothing but the prick of Vigo’s needle. Dwight came to know each one of them and recognize him by sound alone, or even the oppressive heat of his breath, when he went inside the plastic cell provide medication or draw blood.

It was challenging, then, to remember that each one of them was a dangerous killer in his or her own right—but the heavy-handed security measures that constrained each of them were stern reminders. Provisions like unbreakable plastic partitions, steel-frame furniture welded to floor and wall, steel bars, laser grids, whirring alarms, and nozzles that shot scalding steam, contained the prisoners indefinitely under Vigo's twisted care.

“Any one of these deranged creatures,” the doctor insisted, “would rather _kill_ every one of his captors than go free again. Do you understand?” He pointed a skinny, gnarled hand in Dwight’s face, shaking it for good measure. His lab coat slumped off of his sloped shoulders, and his thin hair, pulled tightly back behind his neck, made a halo of frizzy wisps around his head.

They were monsters, nothing more they could be called, so lost and deranged they were, and among them, he warned, prisoner 01 was most worrisome of all.

Prisoner 01 was constrained for 23 hours of the day (released only to eat and use the facilities, surrounded by four guards porting the heaviest weaponry that was safe to handle indoors, and observed with venomous scrutiny by four pairs of eyes and three video cameras as he changed his clothes while he relieved himself, and ate his meal from a paper tray without utensils) by thick straps and cuffs to an immovable surface, its careful construction barely sufficient to keep him at bay, or so Dwight was told. Dwight had never seen 01 without his bonds: the straps over his arms that kept them folded over his chest, steel cuffs on his legs, and the white mask that covered his face and muffled his speech.

The broken-off spikes of steel that projected from his shoulders were vestiges of previous enclosure measures that had failed: attempts to secure him _directly to the wall_ with metal turned through his flesh had failed sorely, leaving jagged bits of steel in his flesh.

Apparently, those measures were in place because 01 was the most dangerous of all of the prisoners, being the strongest, fiercest, and, most damningly, driven by the desire to hurt and kill. While others fought their captivity in self-defence, or out of fear or insanity, 01 _wanted_ to _kill_. Prisoner 01 killed for fun, and tormented for sport. In his life on the surface, he was a man called Evan MacMillan, who was convicted of no less than 112 murders, committed for reasons he had yet to disclose. Despite this devilry he was fairly normal in countenance and build, and quite sound of mind, apparently, before he was taken and mangled by Vigo.

All this Dwight had read covertly in 01’s file, of course. Despite learning the prisoner’s name, he was _not_ to refer to 01 by any other than that numerical designation, neither his birth name nor his nickname, "the Trapper", nor any other moniker that contributed to a more sympathetic, more “human” image of him. When the doors of his cell—four-inch-thick plastic, rated to the highest impact and pressure—opened to admit his attendants or meals, a voice barked sternly over the speaker in his wall, "do not move, zero-one! Stay still, zero-one, or so help me, you'll starve and die!"

Dwight sighed and wrung his wrists as he hovered outside of 03’s cell, after finishing with him. He sopped his hands liberally with moisturizing cream, the sweaty tack of latex gloves taking a toll on his knuckles. Sometimes, this work was exhausting, but still, he would little trade it for any of his miserable past ventures.

Since his prospects dried up above ground, Dwight found Vigo’s asylum his only option for work. At his somewhat truncated interview—the good doctor was not for pleasantries—Dwight had admitted that he wanted to _help_ people, and that was why he chose this course of study, and that was very much true. Despite the terrors the criminals could inflict, Dwight was content to help all sorts, in as much as he was able. Dwight didn’t think very highly of himself, and as such sought to provide care to others more impressive _than_ himself, to elevate them such that _they_ could succeed.

He liked to be needed. This he discovered in his adulthood, that he _liked_ to care.

Vigo had not outright disavowed him of that naivety, but made it clear that Dwight’s job was not to _care_ for his patients, so much as to do Vigo’s bidding. He was to draw blood not to prevent illness, but to provide data for Vigo’s experiments. He would administer medicine not to soothe pain, but to explore the limits of the human body. Dwight understood. And so he did his work with head lowered, quietly attending patients with clinical disconnect, or as much of which as he was capable when faced with desire to _care_.

It was difficult to look at 01, for example, and not wonder about the man he used to be, even when it was impressed upon him that 01 could easily part his head from his shoulders with a twist of his wrist, or violate his innards with any mangled implement he fashioned from metal he tore from the furniture of his cell, if so inclined.

Dwight supposed that _anyone_ would regard the world with malice when impelled into such restricting shape and tormented with unusual drugs, and this he supposed _before_ 01 began to _talk_ to him.

His speech was quiet, and so it had to be, the prisoner’s words delivered between the interruptions of livid shouts of "zero-one! Quiet, damn you!” coming over speakers. The prisoner started by asking questions, about where Dwight was from, and how he came to be here. At first, Dwight kept silent, demurely inserting the needle into stone-hard skin and injecting a medley of powerful drugs: first steroids to keep the body from rejecting metal implants, then sedatives to quiet the prisoner's violent moods, and then Vigo's special serum, the effects of which were devastating and not yet entirely known. Eventually, though, Dwight spoke in reply, his responses soft and measured, and even asked questions of his own:

"Did you really kill all of those men?" Dwight asked, softly.

01 answered in a stiff, perfunctory manner, from beneath his mask. "It seems that way. Next question?"

Dwight bit his lip and inserted the next syringe, applying even pressure to the plunger. "How did you get caught?"

The prisoner was silent for a long moment, his voice low and clear as a beating drum when he spoke up once again. "How did _you?_ ”

Dwight swallowed. He pulled back the plunger of the needle, compelling force red mixed with shimmering yellow.

“Are you scared of me?” 01 asked, coolly, while Dwight drew his blood and portioned it into a set of neatly ordered vials.

Dwight bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t answer.

“Damn you, boy,” 01 snarled back, but with a tone that sounded almost pleased.

Dwight sighed as he leaned on the wall just outside of the cell, muscles relaxing as only they could when fully _out_ of the company of 01. It was a hard question to answer. Frightened, maybe, he was, but still fascinated, and, most foolishly, a little sympathetic.

Every single day Dwight saw 01, and as such came to be more acquainted with him than his closest friends, who were sparse and distant in the first place. The routine of pressing the key-card to the security pad, pushing in the password and waiting for the pneumatic lock to open, and seeing 01 tied upright to a board of steel, his arms in the straining vestiges of a straightjacket crossed over his front, became more pleasing than the solitary existence Dwight eked out in his lonely quarters.

Dwight inserted the third syringe, it full of Vigo’s serum, the mysterious ooze glowing faintly, like a distant cluster of stars. It was a shade of sickly yellow, caustic, and hurt when it went in, Dwight knew, from injecting other prisoners who did not have the mental fortitude to hide their reactions, such as 03 and 07.

Prisoner 01, on the other hand, hardly flinched as the serum entered his vessels whereupon it set quickly to work on lengthening his bones, sealing his injuries, and hardening his muscles until they were as stone. With each injection he grew incrementally out of his skin, resulting in long gashes across his chest and arms that stretched and bled faintly before healing.

MacMillan didn’t as much as wince, and Dwight stared with awe as cells duplicated themselves in writhing multitudes before his very eyes. Clinical fascination was _all_ that his interest amounted to, Dwight insisted, inside his head, where a secret, dangerous admiration was growing.

Prisoner 01 watched Dwight with scrutiny, until the speakers above him shouted, “eyes forward, zero-one, or get ’em scooped out!”

The routine repeated. For a while, Dwight could imagine himself a _real_ medical technician, who worked at a real hospital, rather than under some twisted eccentric’s semi-indentured employ, one who actually cared for and soothed his patients, rather than tormented them.

He went into 01’s cell at the same time each day to administer the medications. As he worked, with one gloved hand he gripped 01’s bicep, and the heat of stone-hard skin shone even through the clingy latex. 01 peeked at him through his mask, brown glower glinting in the holes of the eyes.

While he unpacked his medical bag, Dwight observed 01’s new clothes, freshly cleaned with scalding industrial lye, and pondered, not for the first time, what might be beneath them.

“You’re good at this, aren’t you,” 01 asked, not turning his head, as to conceal his speech from the cameras that watched him. “You notice little details. You like to follow instructions precisely.”

“Well, it’s my job,” Dwight mumbled, and a voice barked from the speaker system.

“Who are you talking to, Fairfield?”

His lips snapped shut while he prepared three syringes.

“You have a talent for procedure,” 01 mumbled.

Dwight paused, turning briefly his shoulder, spying one guard there in addition to the one in front of him. “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied softly.

“I would,” 01 said. “You know how important is that you don’t get those dosages out of order. You’re commendably careful.”

Dwight took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. Suddenly, he doubted himself, and the nearly identical liquids he’d just portioned out.

“You know what would happen if you gave me the serum _before_ the sedative,” 01 muttered, “you know how dangerous that could be.”

At first, Dwight didn't want to acknowledge that MacMillian—01—was even lucid enough to suggest what he was suggesting. Of course he wanted to be free. And of course, he was trying to persuade Dwight to be party to it; Dwight wasn’t so clueless as to miss that. And so would anyone in that situation, wouldn't he?

_They'd sooner kill all of their captors than go free_. That was what Vigo had said. But the doctor was as much a villain as anyone entombed here under the earth. Dwight knew that Vigo inflicted pain without necessity, and pushed his subjects further than was needed. He even punished them by denying them pain medication during surgery, or limiting their rations. But it wasn’t true that they were all monsters, undeserving of salvation.

Dwight's hands rested over the syringes, feeling like they were soon to turn on him, their barbs striking his skin for even _entertaining_ the thoughts he had. He sensed 01 looking at him out of the side of his eye through his mask, the jagged bars of teeth concealing a snarl.

Dwight thought briefly about putting his affairs in order, as if he suspected even a hint of rebellion, Vigo would surely enter Dwight into a cell of his own as a captive to inflict his sickening wiles upon. But he had little in the way of possessions, and as for loved ones to leave behind? Ha.

Perhaps this was the _purpose_ he sought. Dwight had become a medical technician to help ease suffering, and wouldn’t this be that? He swallowed a lump in his throat, his fingers trembling as he took up the syringes.

Prisoner 01 stared at the bare spot on his arm where Dwight had opened straps and inserted the shunt. His breathing was slow and heavy, breaking against his mask like wind against shutters.

Injecting medications in the wrong order felt so incongruous, it nearly made Dwight sick to his stomach.

With the steroid and the serum imparted into his deep tissues, 01 began to breathe harder, fiery pain intruding through his muscle systems, making him swell and flex, as muscle fibres tore and stitched rapidly back together and he howled lowly through his mask.

Dwight stared, backing away as 01 shuddered and shivered, breathing like a wounded beast, finding grip in his curled fingers. Blood spotted places on his straitjacket as wounds opened and reopened on his chest and arms and belly before sealing instantly again. He flexed, tightening his muscles until they bulged and then tore out of his bonds, the seams of his jacket pulling loose and his cuffs bruising and denting.

"—are you doing, 01?" a voice shouted over the speakers, the sound muddled in Dwight's ears. "Stay still, damn you! A security team will be there in one minute!"

The prisoner shed his straitjacket as if it were made of paper. The cuffs on his biceps fell away like crumples of tin foil. He reached down to split the cuffs around his ankles and tear the straps about his thighs. He emerged, like a moth from his cocoon, and planted both feet on the floor, his limbs shaky from disuse but made overly strong by the medicine. He was naked save the mask, his chest impossibly broad and shoulders sloping from his thick neck. His skin was darkened by age and the wounds healing on his front glowed of serum.

Dwight stared, mouth gaping, drawing his fingers to his lips, where they trembled. He didn't know how to react, the shape of the prisoner too spectacular—he knew now what Vigo meant when he said 01 could part his head from his shoulders, or his limbs from his body with only a twist of the wrist.

The prisoner took a deep breath. From behind the jagged teeth of his mask, he appeared to be grinning.

The two guards sprung up, pointing their weapons and firing rubber bullets, which bounced off of 01’s skin like droplets of rain. 01 took one by the throat and threw him onto his back, which hit the cement with a crack. Dwight didn’t know if he was dead. The prisoner dispatched the other guard in the same fashion, throwing him into the corner.

Then he went towards the door, and Dwight expected him to make to escape, remembering then that the key FOB in his pocket was the only way to open the door—his fingers fumbled, too slippery with sweat to grip the keychain wriggling between them.

But MacMillan did not approach the door. He went instead to the wall and slammed his fists against it.

The plastic (at four inches thick and sinking 12 inches into the ceiling and floor, nothing was going through it, or so the security detail had assured Dwight) barely wobbled, and then 01 went to apply his bare feet, slamming the heels into the clear wall. Next he used his knees, then finally his whole self.

"Stop, damn you! Heavy security is coming, and you're gonna be so riddled with bullet holes, you'll piss in six new directions you Frankenstein fuck—!" spouted a static-riddled voice, belonging to the one watching through the cameras.

01 merely laughed with manic joy, continuing to throw himself against the barrier. Why he wasn't attempting escape through the door, Dwight didn't understand, until an alarm began to sound, the wild keening of the buzzer nearly drowned by 01's laughing, the shouting of security over the speakers, and the blood rushing in Dwight's ears.

"Lockdown. Lockdown."

Thus informed a mild, mechanical voice, and then suddenly the room fell silent. A laser grid fell across the outside wall, and a series of metal locks clamped down over the outside of the door, and sealed the two inside. An alarm sang distantly, muffled by the thick plastic.

Dwight stared as 01 turned to him, the prisoner trembling with manic excitement, shoulders broad and pitched forward, steps making the ground quake. Beyond the rush in his ears Dwight heard the shuffle of guards outside, their frantic calls muffled by the wall.

"Purge the room, use the incendiary fuel—"

"...A technician is still inside."

"…fucking lockdown measures. Prise the door?"

"Be my guest, get steamed like a fucking clam."

"…That nurse’s fucked if we don't get in there quick."

"Fuck the nurse, let’s just open fire! Zero-one _cannot_ get out!”

The reality to which the panicked voices were reacting felt distant, and Dwight listened as if in a sort of stupor. He backed away from 01. His steps fell more and more hastily until he felt the cold concrete wall against his back.

The prisoner grunted in amusement as he approached, reaching out to tap a knuckle against Dwight’s chin. His hand was littered with micro-cuts made by the serum, and dribbling lightly with the golden fluid. Dwight flinched as the finger scuffed his cheek.

"What are you doing?" Dwight asked, voice breaking. "You can get out—"

The prisoner chortled with glee, his mask dampening a deep, deadly voice. "Why would I do that? Now that you’re _trapped_ in here with me."

Dwight's eyes grew wide.

_Now_ , he was scared. Now, he could answer that question easily. He had been wrong; the doctor had been right. 01 was… he was…

He had to run. He sprinted to the door, finding it utterly sealed and powered down. He rushed to the wall and began to pound, knowing it would not give up the slightest millimetre, but begging it to just the same.

A collection of six guards, arriving seconds late, some of them whom Dwight knew by name and in whose company he spent every day, merely stared at him, guns lowered as they awaited their orders. They could not approach the wall or door for risk of scalding by a wall of steam, and would not risk themselves for a lowly tech that had gotten himself trapped like a fool. They simply watched as Dwight pounded the Plexiglas with open hands, crying "help, help! Somebody! Please!"

As Dwight struggled, 01 came up behind and placed his full self, all horrifying seven feet of his overgrown body, against Dwight's back, pressing him against the glass, and cinching his hands around Dwight's waist.

Dwight tried to turn and plead with 01, but was forced back as the prisoner slammed an elbow between his shoulders and shoved his face towards the clear wall, forcing his pleas to address the security guards outside. "Wait, 01, please," Dwight begged, his cheek pressed against the Plexiglas, his hand scrabbling backwards to claw at the prisoner's arms, "you don't have to do this. I'll tell them—"

Tell them what? Tell the guards _not_ to pelt the rampaging prisoner with rubber bullets until he crumpled to the floor, to be shackled again? Such was his indefinite fate. What reason did he have, now, _not_ to tear Dwight to pieces, just for the fun of it?

The prisoner shoved his body into Dwight's, forcing him into the transparent wall, keeping one forearm across the breadth of his shoulders to secure him while using the other to lift his lab coat up from where it covered his backside.

Dwight's eyes went wide and he reached back, sinking his curled fingers into 01's forearm. His nails struck stone, or so it felt, making no incursion into flesh. 01 wrapped a hand around Dwight's hip and hoisted him up until he balanced between the balls of his feet and 01's hips, rammed against his backside, holding him pinned. A massive hand sunk into the pocket of Dwight’s lab coat, fishing around until it found the tube of hand cream. 01 grunted in triumph and stuffed the tube into his hand, pulling at Dwight's waistband with the other, jerking hard until the zipper snapped and the fly fell open, then pulling coarsely to get his slacks down. Dwight yelped as cold air touched his rear, followed by the hot smack of 01's hand.

"Don't—don't, zero-one," Dwight muttered, lip trembling as he wriggled to free himself from the prisoner, but the effort was like a moth struggling on sticky paper. A finger slid boldly, dry, between the globes of his ass, sliding down the seam and nudging at the hole.

His spare hand, gripping the tube of cream, didn’t bother to open it, but burst it by squeezing instead, spurting thick, oily off-white over his fingers. He tossed the ruined tube aside and smeared the cream on his hand, before stuffing a finger into the small, furled hole. With the lubricant, it slid in to the second knuckle, Dwight clenching around it and throwing back his head. He lifted onto his toes to try and escape the intruding digit, fingertips gripping the glassy barrier to which he was pressed.

“Zero…one,” Dwight choked out, pushing down to lessen the strain of the intrusion.

“Say my name,” the prisoner said in reply, “I know that you know it.”

Dwight swallowed as the finger withdrew, and he felt a larger form pressing in its place. He took a deep breath, the way he instructed his patients to do before inserting a needle, and let it out with a shiver.

“Evan…” Dwight whispered, and felt the man slide inside him.

The prisoner let out a shuddering breath behind him, shifting his hips up quickly so that Dwight’s body accepted him in one push. The pain was splitting, and Dwight grew still, his head tilted up, panting towards the ceiling. His toes wriggled, trying to reach for the floor for purchase, but Evan’s cock held him up like a meat hook, suspending him awkwardly between Evan’s hips and the clear shield in front of him. A quick, sharp thrust pushed him against the glass and Dwight choked, spine bowing in a tight arc.

“What the fuck…?”

Dwight heard terrified commentary through the wall and realized that the guards, stood neutered of purpose outside the cell, could see all of what was happening to him. He cried, struggling anew, only for a fresh onslaught of thrusting to still his protests. He needed to focus everything on both staying upright and not letting the rod inside him tear him in two.

“The prisoner is… holy shit! That tech…”

“Are you fucking kidding me? He’s skewering that nurse like a…a… oh _fuck_.”

Dwight shut his eyes. He heard the muffled comments of the security staff, stood at an awkward distance. Their very duty was to keep their eyes trained on the prisoner, but to stare openly at Dwight’s violation felt distinctly sickening, and as Dwight realized this, his humiliation was compounded.

Evan thrusted excitedly into him, the size of him overwhelming to the point of grotesque—the serum augmented every part of him, it seemed, bulging his manhood beyond what was natural—and Dwight struggled just to take him without falling faint. He sobbed with each thrust, willing his humiliation end quickly, putting his elbows against the glass.

“That’s it,” Evan murmured into the back of Dwight’s neck as he lurched methodically into his guts, his hardness fiery hot as the serum flowed unimpeded through his systems. It was like lava, burning and reshaping, making his form massive and his skin volatile, “you don’t know how long I’ve waited for this… dreaming about being inside your tight little body. You may hide it from the others, but you can’t hide from me.”

Prisoner 01 pulled out and Dwight breathed in relief as the enormous shaft slid free, his hole gaping numbly around the space it left. He felt his feet lower to the ground, only for Evan to pull him down and put him on his back on the floor. Dwight struggled weakly, shoving at Evan’s bicep with his heel, but Evan hardly noticed as he shucked Dwight’s slacks the rest of the way off and tossed them aside.

Dwight kicked but Evan caught his feet and pulled Dwight along the floor to his naked lap, dropping a hand to feed himself back inside. Dwight howled and threw back his head, chest rising towards the ceiling, legs trembling in Evan’s steel grip. Evan started to thrust again, setting a quick pace, each push sliding Dwight’s back against the cement floor. Dwight put his hands over his mouth and cried helplessly into his fingers.

“You look so good, taking my cock inside you,” Evan panted, tongue lashing out to strike the bars of his mask, “if only you knew how tempting you had looked to me…you would’ve never come in here.”

“F-fuck you,” Dwight spat out, weakly, through his hands. Evan laughed.

Dwight looked down between his knees and regretted it instantly. At this angle, he could see the sheer size of 01’s augmented figure: muscles bulged angrily out of his skin, which tore and secreted trickles of glowing serum, like molten gold dribbling down his chest. His pecs stood out from his chest, his belly was hard with muscle, and his arms… one bicep matched the width of Dwight’s thigh, and the shoulders were as wide as two men stood together. And his manhood…Dwight could see vividly as it withdrew and plunged back inside him with steady thrusts, the width of it unbearable.

“Holy fuck,” the security guards continued to comment, drawing slightly closer to the see-through wall despite the displeased orders coming from their captain. “He’s _massive_. How’s that nurse taking all that?”

“…How can I get me some of that serum?”

“Yeah, right, you wanna become a drooling moron like zero-three?”

“A drooling moron with a big dick,” the guard snapped back, “ _fuck_ , he’s big, though. That nurse is brave as hell.”

Dwight felt his ears buzz; he could hardly hear a thing over the blood pumping in his ears and the slap of Evan’s thrusts against the back of his thighs. The angle shifted and Dwight keened, slapping the ground and pressing his fingertips into the textureless surface.

“E-Evan,” Dwight moaned, semiconscious, reaching his shaking hands for Evan’s knees. He couldn’t manage to drag himself up and fell back, interrupted in his quivering lurch as Evan began to pound his prostate with vigour, taking cues from the twitch of Dwight’s muscles and the quality of his cries.

“Good, isn’t it?” Evan whispered, and grabbed Dwight’s dick, drawing it to hardness with a few firm strokes. He continued to stroke as he thrusted, causing electric impulses in Dwight’s body to rocket through him. Ecstasy grew and Dwight cried out as he saw white.

“Damn,” came a voice from behind the glass, “he’s so fucking strong. The way that lab tech is shaking… he’s really feeling it now.”

“We gotta stop this. We gotta get in there.”

“We can’t do shit until the lockdown ends; might as well watch the show.”

“Fucking creep. This isn’t funny.”

“Oh yeah? Like _you_ didn’t have your eyes on that naïve little tech from day one.”

Dwight looked in horror between his thighs to see he’d spilled on himself after a few easing strokes of Evan’s massive fist. Cum littered his folded abdomen and Dwight covered his eyes in mortification—was he enjoying being watched, or was it simply all of 01’s brutal attention?

“Look, he’s taking it good. What a good little bottom.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me watch.”

Locked up here, devoid of choice, devoid of company… 01’s attention was single-minded, dead-set… and it was _all_ for Dwight.

Dwight distantly heard the shuffling of feet, the clanging of metal as Evan pulled out, flipped him onto his front and plunged into him again. Thrusting eagerly, he drew a hand under Dwight’s belly to stroke it, pinch his nipples, play in his pubic hair. Dwight groaned, ecstasy flooding his insides from the jab of Evan’s cockhead against his prostate, the white-hot sear of pleasure travelling up his spine. He dropped his head between his shoulders, and fell to his elbows, lifting his rear into the air.

“Evan, Evan…” Dwight moaned, jaw slack as his cock bobbed between his legs, coming to hardness a second time, “…f…uck, _…ck_ …”

“Good boy,” 01 imparted excitedly, his voice growing husky and thin as he panted, drawing nearer to completion. His thrusts grew more desperate, rapid-fire, the force of his hips bruising Dwight’s pristine white thighs, making the skin pink and red. Serum, like sweat, splashed down his front as his pecs rose and strained with his breath, his chest expanding and the skin ripping to admit more hideous growth.

With a shuddering groan, Evan came inside him, and Dwight felt the searing hot desire transfer through the heat that painted his innards white and gold. His eyes rolled back, shared orgasm spreading through him as his knees gave out and his chest slumped to the floor, belly soaked in Evan’s cum.

There was a clanging, a loud beep, and then the door to the cell swung open, admitting the clomping boots of no less than four security troops. Two men in carbon-fibre armour dragged Dwight to his knees, pulling him off of Evan’s cock and shuffling him out of the cell. 01 raised his hands in surrender, chuckling madly. He laughed even as the guards struck him and pushed him to his hands and knees, their Tasers having the miniscule effect of a mosquito stinging a boar.

Outside of the clear wall, two guards bundled Dwight in a blanket, covering his modesty and swaddling him tightly. They sat him carefully up, telling him it was okay, they’d get him some help, it’s alright, don’t worry, that big fucker isn’t going anywhere, just sit tight.

Dwight watched, shoulders slumping, drawing deep breaths as through the glassy barrier between them Evan was restrained. The guards shoved the prisoner over onto his knees, pointing their guns at him, striking him with batons and Tasers and cattle prods, shouting for him to comply as they tightened cuffs, straps, and harnesses over his bulging form. That he went willingly, chuckling all the while through his mask, was the only reason they were able to restrain him, Dwight knew, as with one hand he could break his bonds, and bullets would no doubt bounce off of his skin like pebbles against a windowpane.

Dwight watched as they forced 01 to his knees, facing the glass, his arms restrained behind his back, his chest protruding forwards, his shoulders straining. 01 caught his gaze, and his smile beamed through the holes of his mask, as Dwight slumped, faint, into the arms of the guards.

Vigo wouldn’t believe that Dwight had made an honest mistake in the order of the syringes, and, as Dwight expected, stripped him of all of his duties with haste. He put Dwight in a cell of his own, in a ward until then unknown to Dwight, with other folk who had run afoul of the cruel scientist. Other men and women suffered in their cells, driven mad by proximity to the killers who haunted the floor above them, stomping and screaming in anguish for as long as was the day—so far below ground, however, it hardly mattered when night came.

“Let me be with him,” came sobs from down the hall, wails of pain and _want_ echoing. Walls were struck and rattled dully with thudding limbs. “Michael… Ana… Max… Adiris… Philip… Danny… I want him… I need her!”

Dwight struggled to remember the names. He’d read them all somewhere, learned them what seemed to be a life and a death ago. His mind swam and it was hard to think of much of anything with the drug they gave him now.

Dwight didn’t struggle as he was dragged down the hall by the guards by an arm around his bicep, gripping harshly. As they passed the cells in his block Dwight saw countless others in his same position, kept in solitary spaces until their times came due. Some huddled in the corner of their cells, others sobbed in desperation as the guards passed, begging to be returned to their charges.

Dwight had been stripped of his lab coat, of course, and turned into an outfit that afforded him no chance of slipping anything in or out of the cell—a plain white t-shirt and white scrubs, slippers instead of shoes. Vigo had noticed, that day, Dwight’s ability to let his pathetic, plain look conceal his true intent, his true determination, and the doctor didn’t plan on being defied again.

The doctor had also noticed that 01 had been remarkably compliant (in both his body to accept the serum, and in his mind to be obedient) after sating himself with Dwight’s assistance. Something useful _had_ been learned that day.

The familiar cell hissed open, pneumatic seal popping and laser grid lowering as the guards pushed Dwight through the portal. Inside, 01’s jumpsuit was open to the waist and he was washing himself in a basin of detergent, the remains of his daily meal set aside while four guards stood in corners facing him, watching the prisoner with distain. When Dwight arrived, he turned, look shifting over his shoulder, eyes peering sidelong through his mask.

Dwight rushed towards him, wrapping his arms wherever he could reach, circling 01’s waist and collapsing against his side. “Evan,” he gasped, turning into the warmth of his belly, his chest, his cheek falling to 01’s broad pectoral.

“There’s my boy,” Evan murmured, patting a hand through Dwight’s hair. “Have you been good?”

“Yes,” Dwight gasped, nearly insensible from the sedatives and the… other medications with which he’d been plied. A _new_ serum, experimental, was injected into him daily: in addition to aphrodisiac properties, it also granted Dwight increased stamina, and speedy healing, while reducing other faculties such as his fear response. Not that any sort of medication could make him fear Evan anymore. Evan was the only one in this wretched place who needed him, anymore, and so, Dwight needed _him_. He reached for 01’s groin, gripping his cock through his thin jumpsuit.

“That’s it,” Evan whispered, voice growing thick with lust. He took Dwight’s hand and led him towards the bed he had been granted, lately, for his newfound cooperation. “Were you lonely?”

“Yes,” Dwight nodded. “Please, Evan…” He sat down on the bed and grabbed for the prisoner’s waist again, zipping down his suit with shaky hands and bringing his cock to the air, gripping it in one hand. It bulged, inhumanly proportioned, and Dwight swooned as he brought it to his mouth, forcing his jaw to part around the thick head. This was in view of the guards, decked in safety gear, armour and weapons, and watching with a mix of disdain and intrigue. A few averted their eyes and another few partook openly of the show.

Evan shoved Dwight back so that he fell to the bed, and while he moaned in protest and tried to return to Evan’s cock, the prisoner stripped him out of his slacks, and Dwight quickly opened his naked legs. He leaned up on his elbows to watch Evan kneel between his legs on the cot.

“What are you waiting for?” Dwight panted, yellow glowing faintly in his eyes as he reached down for Evan’s hip, “give it to me—”

The prisoner shoved Dwight back, lifted one of his ankles to his shoulder and fed his cock in with the other hand. It went in easily and Dwight sobbed, tipping his head back into the mattress and grabbing for the sheets with shaky hands, fingers clenching with effort. He was filled with cruel medicine of his own, now, and it compelled him further onto his patient’s throbbing shaft, even to the detriment of his quivering body and struggling sanity. The serum that flowed in Evan’s veins was coupled with that in Dwight’s own, and as the loop was finished in their bodies, the chemical inside him burned and sang out.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Dwight moaned, eyes squeezed shut as tears of effort trickled from them. Evan glided into him, with less urgency and instead with practice, knowing just how to rightly open up his prey and stir his insides, make him keen and cry with ecstasy.

Beneath prisoner 01 and under the scrutinizing eyes of cameras, Dwight cried, gripping the backs of his thighs white-knuckled, desperate to hold his patient inside him. Tears flowed as ecstasy flowed through him.

Behind cameras, the good doctor watched, pleased with the progress of his two subjects.


End file.
